I shall not die of a cough
by woodlandflower13
Summary: Fortunato's view of what happended in Edgar E. Poe's Cask of Amontillado. Warning mild language and character death.


"_Io andrὸ non morire di un tosse."_

I walked into the small chamber, for it was no larger then a water closet, and stood bewildered at the wall that hindered my progress. I realized then, even with my mind fogged with wine, that there was no Amontillado here. Why had my friend Montresor brought me here if there wasn't any wine? Had we not come through this dark, and dismal place of the dead to taste his wine and enjoy life? The catacombs were grimy, damp, the air tasted stale, the walls when not covered with Niter were lined with the bones of my friend's deceased family , and there was a constant drip as water rained off of the stalagmites and into puddles, a chill ran down my back for a reason I know not. It's just the cold I thought the wine will make me warm , where was that wine?

His touch which earlier had been friendly and warm, now was hostel and cold, as he swiftly chained me to the wall. He stood back, his tone was mocking, yet somehow held no warmth or joy. 1"Once more I implore you to return. No? Then I must leave you here." I, in a somewhat shocked manner, then asked of the wine. Why had we come here, if not to taste the Amontillado, then what? 2"True, the Amontillado." he said solemnly, and that was all. I watched him, in my drunk stupor, waiting as a child would for further enlightenment, but he said no more. For he had started to move the bones of his ancestors from a pile where they had hid building stone and mortar, he then proceeded to procure a trowel from the folds of his clothes and vigorously began to wall up the small opening that led to my prison.

For some reason the wine seemed to drain from, and my blood went cold. A cry was ripped from my throat as I became fully aware of what my former friend was doing. Here I was down on this night of joy and celebration. When all were drunk and busy making merry, he and I would never be discovered down in these foreboding depths of the dead. No one would know of his deed. But why? What had I done?

His torch burnt dimly as he worked, I was hardly able to see my cell, but I could feel it. The stone walls were wet and slick from years of water running down them, wearing away their roughness and revealing the niter that was in the rock. I heard the sound of Montresor working, his movements were deft and precise. He knew what he was doing. I watched with growing horror as the wall steadily grew taller.

The forth tier, I grew frantic, Montresor was a third of the way finished. I struggled with the chain which bit into my tender flesh without remorse. Maybe I hoped that Montresor would wake up from the trance he was in, that something would click and he would become himself again. He had stopped working! Maybe this was all a joke? I stopped rattling my chains, waiting for him to come and unlock me. To reassure me that this was all just pretend. He did not come. Then I heard a sickening noise, the sound of a stone block being added to the wall.

The wall grew high with each moment, each stone placed. I was losing the light of the torch and slowly being amerced in darkness. I felt it, panic, it was swelling in my breast, taking hold of me making my limbs shiver and my spine grow cold. I couldn't take it, I tried to suppress it keep it in, to keep it in, surely he would not kill me? Had I ever done anything to merit this treatment? I started to scream, at the top of my lungs, for my life. Hoping, praying that someone would find me in this god forsaken burial ground, pleading with my heart that I would not join them. Then something happened that I would never have foreseen. He joined me in my screams. Montresor began to scream and yell, even louder then I! What was this man? Exhausted and hoarse I grew silent once again.

He continued his work, growing, growing, never seeming to stop. Up, up, and up. Eleven. He was on the last tire. My hope was gone. Dead am I to the world. The last stone, he struggles with the weight. How funny, that he should grunt with the work of merely lifting a stone. Had I not screamed, and struggled for my life? I laugh, and I ask him one last time, for still a voice in my mind begs that I must live and that he is, after all still human. My voice is small and sad, but still I try. I laugh.3"A very good joke indeed- an excellent jest! Let us be gone."He replies merely 4"Yes, let us be gone." I snap, if this is a joke it has gone too far! 5_"For the love of God, Montresor!". __6_"Yes for the love of God!" He replies. He is excited now, thriving of my desperation. I stay silent. There is nothing left to say. He shall not have my last words. If there is a God, let him take me, and let Montresor go down to the depths of hell. 7"Fortunato!" he calls. 8"Fortunato!" he calls again. The flaming torch comes in through the small open space, my tomb is revealed. I barely hear the last stone slid into place as I survey my tomb. It is small, wet, cold, raw, and silent except for the drip of water. I shake my head as I laugh softly. The bells of my costume jingle. Io andrÒ non morire di un tosse, 9"I shall not die of a cough" I said. No that is not my fate. The flame goes out and darkness creeps in. It surrounds and enfolds me, and I embrace it.

Arp, Thomas R., and Greg Johnson. Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense. 8th ed. Boston: Heinle, 2001.

Kellogg, Michael. "Search." . 1999. 10 Sept. 2008 .com/.

1Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-685

2Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-685

3Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-686

4Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-686

5Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-686

6Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-686

7Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-686

8Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-686

9Edgar Allen Poe, Perrine's Literature : Structure, Sound and Sense, P-685


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